Snowman Shivers: Scary Snowman Tales

That Old Silk Hat They Found

A cool wind kisses me.

Little by little the sensation rises, becomes more real. The soft light breeze becomes an intense, encompassing cold. But the cold doesn't hurt me — it soothes me. It feels good, comfortable.

Relaxed in the darkness, I realize that my eyes are closed. What am I saying? I realize, for the first time, that I have eyes.

I open my eyes to see the world through some sort of charcoal grey lens. But despite the blurry grey haze I can make out a white landscape and figures moving in the distance. Running and cavorting, their shouts are muffled. I can barely hear them.

I can barely see, I can barely hear.

But I do have life.

It's an incredible feeling — almost overwhelming.

I don't really understand who or what I am, but having life feels good. Knowing that I exist and that I can sense and feel is wonderful.

I try to move, but I can't. I look down.

No!

I don't have legs — just this big round mass.

I look to my sides. My arms are mere sticks. They flail uselessly in the wind.

Who created me? Who gave me this cruel life? Was it those kids who frolic so joyfully in the snow? It must have been. They are the only other ones here. Can't they see what a horrid creature they have conjured? Can't they tell what a torture this life is that they have given me?

"Hey!"

A deep voice calls to me. Who is it that addresses me? Certainly not the children, for they are still ignoring me. The voice sounds much different, much clearer and closer than the voices of the children. My eyes scan the landscape.

"Hey, you! Newcomer!"

Finally, my eyes spot the owner of the voice. He is one like me, off to my left. I can tell he is like me because instead of legs and feet, his bottom is a large white mass of snow. He is built like three large balls stacked upon one another. There is a scarf wrapped around his neck. He has dark lumps for eyes, a carrot nose, two sticks like mine, bobbing in the wind, and several tiny stones in a line which form a horridly ironic grin.

I try to respond, but I cannot make a sound.

"Don't even try to speak. You can't. They didn't give you a mouth," the other one says.

They didn't give me a mouth? Feeble arms, no legs, no mouth. What evil creatures they must be! Why even bother to give me life, then?

"Welcome to the world, Frosty."

Frosty? Is that my name? Did they at least give me a name? I wonder, what is the name of my companion?

"In case you're wondering, my name's Frosty too. For the most part, even if they do name us, we're all called Frosty at one time or another. I guess it's supposed to be a funny name for a snowman. But for the sake of personality, you can call me Oldtimer. I've been alive for ages now. Can you believe that I'm four weeks old? Geez, where does the time go?

"Well, since you're new, I'll give you the low-down. God, it's so good to be able to talk to someone again. Do you know that I've been alone now for almost two weeks?"

Just then, a child runs up to Oldtimer. "Hey now!" Oldtimer says. "Get your paws off of me!" But the child laughs and grabs at the nose.

"YAAAAAAAAARGHHHH!" Oldtimer's scream cuts through my head. I can almost feel his pain as the child wrenches the nose free and runs, laughing, through the snow. Another child, upset, chases after him, determined to get the carrot back.

Oldtimer is quiet for a moment. I wonder if he's okay. I wonder if he's still alive.

I wonder if they create us just to torture us.

"Stupid little brat!" Oldtimer says in a low moan. The anguish is clear in his voice. "I'm okay, now. It hurts, but not so bad as I imagine it was for Sammy."

Sammy? Who is Sammy?

"Sammy was my last companion. He stood not four feet from where you now are. And if you think I'm old, he'd been around from the beginning of time. He was the one who explained to me all about what being a snowman means. Do you want to hear it?

"Well, since you can't speak, then you can't object and you're going to have to hear it.

"If you haven't already guessed, humans created us. We are created merely for their pleasure. From what little I have learned of humans, they do this quite often. They create all kinds of creatures merely to use them as they see fit — and to dispose of in a likewise manner. Sammy told me stories of them breeding creatures merely to eat or to keep as what are called pets. I guess that we're like pets. Except, of course, we can't do much more than stand here. At least their other pets have the freedom to roam around. See this yellow stain at the bottom of my right side? It's a little gift from one of their pets called Spike.

"But what nerve, eh? What gall. To automatically assume ownership of another species — to create another being and then to destroy it for their own pleasure."

Oldtimer is silent again. And it is then that the child who took off after the one with the carrot returns, triumphantly holding the carrot up high. She returns to Oldtimer and sinks the carrot into his face.

He grunts as she does this.

Then the girl turns and looks across at me. She frowns, turning her head to the side. She mutters something and walks forward.

I've never known such fear, such dread. She's coming at me and I can't do anything about it. Trying desperately to cringe and shrink back, I close my eyes and wish I could at least scream.

Her finger sinks into the front of my face. I can feel a painful warmth tearing into me. It becomes a burning sensation — incredibly intense. I feel as if my head is going to explore in a bright burst of white light.

A scream, louder than the one Oldtimer made a few minutes ago, rings in my head. It goes on and on, then Oldtimer yells. "For Pete's sake, cut it out, will you?"

The screaming is coming from me?

I try to stop the noise and sure enough, it stops. I open my eyes to find the little girl smiling up at me. She wasn't hurting me intentionally — she was melting me a mouth.

"Thank you," I say to her, but she is oblivious. She begins dancing around me and singing, but it makes no sense. She sings about a jolly, happy snowman. Her song confuses me. How the hell can a snowman be jolly?

"Hey," I say to Oldtimer.

"So now you have a mouth. I know it must have hurt like a bugger, but it's good you can talk. Sammy said that it was important for us to be able to talk."

"Why is that? I ask.

"Because we have a legacy to pass along. We are created and then can do nothing about our existence. But if we can speak, then at least we can pass along stories to each other. So we have an oral tradition to uphold. We pass along speculative tales of what's to come."

Of what's to come? What is he talking about?

I have to ask: "What happened to Sammy?"

"He was torn apart. Tortured. Smashed to pieces by a gang of kids. It was horrible, watching them do it, listening to his screams. It was, so far, the worst experience I've ever faced — except, of course, for being completely alone these past two weeks."

A muffled yell cuts through Oldtimer's speech. I look to see a group of kids approaching. The girl dancing around me runs in the opposite direction and as the gang nears, I recognize the leader as the one who pulled Oldtimer's nose off.

"Here it comes," Oldtimer says. "Finally, our salvation."

"Our salvation? What are you talking about?"

The first of the kids arrives, kicking a large chunk of snow from Oldtimer. A second kid starts throwing punches. A third kid tears into him, ripping away huge chunks. All along, Oldtimer wails and screams.

It's more terrible than he described.

There is nothing I can do. I look about and see, in the direction the girl ran, a large group of kids coming.

"Hey Oldtimer!" I yell. "Hang in there. It looks like help is on the way."

He moans. "Help? No. No. I'm almost . . . free."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Punches and kicks send snow flying in all directions. Oldtimer speaks between screams, moans and grunts. "If . . . you think . . . this . . . is a bad way . . . to die," he cuts off for a moment, his voice drowned in an anguished wallow.

"What? What could be worse?"

I can barely see him now through the flailing arms and legs. The little girl and her gang are getting closer, yelling something. Will they arrive in time to save my friend?

"Before he died . . . Sammy told me . . . about, " another wail, "the apocalypse."

"The apocalypse?"

"Yes. The slowest . . . most painful death . . . you can imagine . . . when everything . . . melts. They call it . . . spring. Just pray . . .that you're not around," there is a long pause as he fights to summon up his last words, "when . . . spring comes."

The second gang of kids arrive and quickly chase the others off with a barrage of snowballs and yells. But it is too late. When they clear the area I can see Oldtimer. He is nothing now but a pile of snow with a few broken sticks, some stones and a scarf.

He has found his salvation.

The kids fuss over the pile of snow and then turn their attention to me, long enough to add Oldtimer's scarf to my neck. They chat for a bit and then leave me to solitude.

Time passes. I can't even cry.

My eyes cast fervently across the fields of snow. My fear is that I'll spot some children off in the distance beginning the ritual of building another snowman. I don't think I could even bear to watch.

I yearn for the mean kids to return. To smash me down the way they destroyed Oldtimer. At least it was quick. I'm remembering when the little girl melted me a mouth and how the burning sensation was the worst I had ever felt. I don't think I can even imagine what it will be like when spring comes and I slowly melt down to nothing.

Now, all I can do is sit here and wait.

And wonder if the torture of melting will be much worse than the agony of knowing now that spring in inevitable.